


Reprieve

by Sirca



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5435492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirca/pseuds/Sirca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Burning Legion looms on the horizon. Wrathion intends to stop them, no matter what the cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before all the alpha Legion things came out, so just be wary of Legion-esque things that may be involved in here. I didn't know that certain things would turn out to actually happen, and wouldn't happen.
> 
> Any mistakes made are purely my own.

Dalaran. A shimmering beacon of hope amongst the chaos—where life continues as it did before the Legion, and would after. Bakers will make their bread, tailors will sew their clothing, and the mages will continue their studies. Even as more adventurers, soldiers, and politicians fill their home with each passing day.

He could almost admire the way the wheels continue to turn. Almost, until he was captured and dragged before the Archmage himself. He found that Khadgar was a far more shrewd man than he first anticipated. Especially after his foray into humor. 

“Again, I want you to explain to me why you’ve come here,” said Khadgar, giving Wrathion a look that he assumed was meant to make him lay bare all of his secrets. 

“I wish to assist in whatever way I can with the Burning Legion.” Wrathion spread his hands in a placating gesture.

“While the Kirin Tor remains neutral, your past is very colorful, young dragon,” Khadgar continued. “How can I trust you not to cause more trouble?”

Wrathion smiled. “You can’t, though you seem to already know this.”

For not the first time since their meeting had begun, Khadgar rubbed the crease between his brows. Lines, Wrathion thought, that will only grow deeper as the war continues. 

“If I so much as catch a hint of trouble, you will be forced to leave. Is this clear?” Khadgar caved. His stern tone reminded Wrathion of human fathers attempting to warn their sons away from trouble.

“I understand, though I hope that day will never come,” Wrathion said, appearing to look the picture of innocence. 

“I just know I’m going to regret this. You’re dismissed.” He waved a hand wearily at Wrathion, who rose to show himself out. 

As he made his way through the winding halls, back out into the cool air of Dalaran, he wondered if Khadgar could even have guessed his true reason for being there.  
Truly, he had nowhere else to go.

*

It took little time to set up in Dalaran as he had in Pandaria. One of the rooms above a tavern was rented for him, and his Blacktalons filtered their way into unassuming positions. He brought far more of them with him than even the dear Archmage could fathom. 

He chose an alcove as his. Blue-purple curtains obscured parts of it from prying eyes, easily undone if Wrathion required privacy with those he met with. The room itself was spacious, able to seat more than a few if Wrathion so wished. It appeared, for all intents and purposes, perfect for business. 

He penned his letters with a lavish, flourishing script. Some in Orcish, others in Common. He even penned a few in Thalassian, considering the nature of the letter’s recipients. It would take only a few days for his new champions to pour in, he was certain. 

It gave him time to prepare his resources and make a plan of action, regardless. He pushed away from the table, passing off the last letter to one of his guards, who would spirit away to its recipient. In the meantime, Wrathion had heard of a nearby bakery that specialized in Pandaren treats. 

He would never admit it, but sometimes he missed the Veiled Stair. Though the city was full of conveniences, the view of the Broken Isles looked more like a war zone than something scenic. Perhaps, if he made it out of this war unscathed, he would visit again someday. 

His reverie was short lived, however. The Silver Covenant had seen fit to block off a portion of the street—the very same portion he needed to travel down. Indignantly, he pressed through onlookers to see why they’d deemed it necessary.

And stopped mid step.

Alliance banners snapped in the ever present breeze that blew through Dalaran. They were carried by armored men and women, who flanked two individuals. One, tall, graying, and regal. The other, almost Wrathion’s height, perhaps a bit taller. His messy blonde hair only grew more unruly as he turned to say something to his companion. 

Prince Anduin Wrynn had arrived in Dalaran. Some of the crowd of onlookers waved and called his name. His friend had changed much since he had last saw him, carrying himself with an air that was unfamiliar to Wrathion, even as he smiled and waved in return. Perhaps it was the war weighing heavily on him. He could almost come up with a remark of Anduin appearing as Khadgar, but it felt like ashes in his throat. 

The others, Wrathion took notice when he focused once more, called out to King Greymane. Ah, he thought, so that is who he traveled with. Strange that High King Varian had not accompanied them. Or perhaps not so strange, considering he might be on the front lines. 

Something that felt like agitation gnawed at the pit of his stomach. He had told Archmage Khadgar that there would be no trouble. Yet, it seemed as though trouble had found him. He weaved through the crowd, heading back to the tavern and the safety of his room.

“I will simply have to avoid him,” he said, more to himself than the guard he handed his fine coat off to. He understood princely duties, and Anduin would most certainly have many to occupy his time. 

Yes, most certainly.

*

Anduin Wrynn did not always occupy himself with princely duties, it seemed. That much had not changed. Wrathion was sorting through his own mail, looking over responses when he caught sight of familiar golden hair. 

Then Anduin laughed, and Wrathion felt as though he was winded. His only friend was within shouting distance, but he knew better than to approach him.

He saw Anduin, then, as he last had during the trial. His wounded look, his anger, and the thought that Wrathion could possibly harm him. No, it would be best if he didn’t try to make conversation. He was still a wanted criminal by the Alliance, and he had broken his friend’s trust. More likely he’d be hauled off in chains, neutral territory or not. 

Instead, he watched.

Anduin had amassed a following of small children, each looking more eager than the other. He was showing them how to balance a coin on his fingers, before flipping it gracefully into one of Dalaran’s fountains. One of the children took the coin he offered, only to attempt to flip it and have it slide to the ground. The two of them laughed, and he showed the child the technique once more.

He was charming, as always. 

Wrathion shook his head. It would be like Anduin Wrynn to make time to please children than to focus on the war. Though, if Wrathion admitted it, it was amusing to watch.  
That was how he left him, surrounded by children clamoring for coin to toss into the fountain.

“I wish that Prince Anduin beats the demons!” A child shouted, and Wrathion felt his lips tug downward. He hoped for the same, for all of their sakes. 

*

He knew, damn it all, he knew he was in the city. Perhaps he had seen him the day he’d been spying on Anduin at the fountain. Or, perhaps, word had traveled faster than he’d anticipated. The steady flow of adventurers into the tavern was a not so subtle clue that something was happening, after all. 

Wrathion had to cut one of his earlier meetings short because a certain prince had stepped through the doorway, one of the most serious and determined looks on his face that Wrathion had ever seen. It had been nothing short of a miracle that he’d managed to slip out the back before being spotted. 

Then, the prince must’ve caught word of his favorite bakery. The last three times he’d attempted to visit, Stormwind guards lined the streets in front of the entrance, and he’d spied Anduin through the window. 

He was hounded. And he was hiding in a very un-princely like manner. At least the couple he’d cut off earlier was interested enough to meet with him once more. A strange pair, the warlock and death knight, who seemed more focused on making him more uncomfortable than actually heeding his words. They claimed to be seasoned artifact hunters, however. He’d sent them off with instructions before leaning back in his chair.

Wrathion couldn’t keep this up. Eventually, Anduin would corner him and demand explanations or simply drag him off. He could head him off, he supposed, find him in the embassy that housed the Alliance’s visitors. Or, he could duck and weave until was tired of running. 

From his room, he penned one last letter. His quill flew across the pages, looping script filling the paper. He signed it with a simple ‘W’ before folding it and stamping it with a wax seal. Let Anduin make of it what he may, but he refused to have his reception area lost to him any longer.

After passing it off to one of his guards, all Wrathion could do was wait. 

*

Prince Anduin Wrynn stood in front of the fountain, his hands folded behind his back. He was without his entourage of small children or trading his gold for wishes. Wrathion stopped, taking in the sight of him. He wished, almost desperately, that Anduin had changed. Perhaps he could see what he’d done, what he had continued to do for the good of Azeroth. 

But Anduin turned, and all hopes he had were crushed. His mouth set in a hard line. 

“My dear prince! How nice it is to—“

“Don’t,” said Anduin, cutting him off sharply, and Wrathion’s mouth closeed with an audible click. Upon closer inspection, Anduin did indeed appear much different than he’d last seen him. Some of the softness to his face had been sharpened, as if a stoneworker had chiseled the strain of the last few years onto him. 

Wrathion wondered if he seemed just as foreign. He didn’t make to speak again, not until Anduin said what he needed to. “I want to know why you’re here.”

Wrathion mimicked Anduin’s posture, folding his hands behind his back. The fountain’s rippling waters suddenly seem interesting, and he watched the way the gold coins shimmered in the evening light. “The same reason as you, I would assume. I want the Legion to be stopped.”

“Like you did in Pandaria?” Anduin asks, but it lacks sharpness. There’s more concern in his words—concern for the people who may get swept up into Wrathion’s plots. Some parts of Anduin, it seemed, remained the same. 

“I suppose I deserve that,” Wrathion said, chancing a glance at Anduin. His face was guarded.

“That and more.” Anduin folded his arms across his chest. “You wouldn’t have avoided me if you weren’t up to something.”

“I did no such thing!”

“I saw you leaving the tavern the other night,” Anduin deadpanned. 

“Ah,” Wrathion murmured, turning his attention back to the fountain. “Then I suppose I was avoiding you.”

He heard Anduin’s finely tailored boots scuff against the paved stones. “Right now, we could use all the help we can get. You’ve spoken so passionately about saving Azeroth in the past. If this is true, you shouldn’t be skulking about in the shadows because of me.”

When Wrathion looked, Anduin seemed troubled. As if it were strange to consider himself a threat to anything. Truth be told, Wrathion couldn’t have gauged Anduin’s reaction. He had, after all, not parted with him under the best of terms.

“Then I shall make you an offer of good faith,” Wrathion said, tilting his head. “You are free to watch my dealings as you did in the Veiled Stair. You will see that I am genuine.”  
“You said that about yourself there too,” Anduin pointed out, not unkindly. “And look what happened.”

Wrathion couldn’t lie. He couldn’t say he’d changed. Perhaps his temperament had grown more patient. But he still couldn’t deny the need of the righteous sacrifice. Undoubtedly people would get hurt, they would die, but if it meant the survival of the whole, he would take it.

Anduin would struggle in vain to save every last soul. It was an endearing quality, if one that would ultimately lead to their downfall. 

“You can observe, if you wish. If it isn’t to your satisfaction, you can…” What? Arrest him? Drag him off to some Alliance prison where he would waste away? “Voice your concerns. I will heed them.”

His words didn’t seem to be enough to fully convince Anduin. Honestly, Wrathion would be disappointed if it had been that easy to win his once-friend’s trust. If the roles had been reversed and Anduin had betrayed him, well, the sting of it would not leave his memory so easily. 

“My work here will keep me busy, but I will check in with you,” Anduin finally admitted. More likely, Wrathion mused, the SI:7 would keep tabs on his comings and goings. If Anduin had any common sense, he would. 

“Very well, I agree to your terms,” Wrathion said with a flourish of his hand. 

“This isn’t a game, Wrathion.” Anduin’s voice is suddenly far sterner.

“Our survival is most decidedly not a game, Prince Anduin,” he responded, perhaps a little too quickly.

“I hope that for all of our sakes, you’ve changed,” Anduin said. With that, he turned, believing their business to be done. It was a start, Wrathion believed. Hopefully they could mend their bridges, and set aside what had happened for the greater good of Azeroth.

“Oh, and Prince Anduin? It truly was good to see you again,” Wrathion called out to Anduin’s retreating form. His back stiffened, but he said nothing more. 

*

A map of the Broken Isles spread across Wrathion’s table. There was a demon hunter, the newest addition to the misbegotten Horde and Alliance families, seated across from him. The blood elf looked impressive, all rippling muscles and tattoos. He heard that the demon hunters were far more impressive in the field of battle. That made them prime candidates for what he wished to be done. 

“As you may know, the entrance to my late father’s lair is said to be here,” he tapped the map with the tip of his clawed finger. It plucked against the parchment, but did no more damage than the pins he’d placed into it upstairs. 

“Dragons have a bad reputation, I’m afraid, of hoarding artifacts of great importance. Now, I can assure you that there is a difference between hoarding and protecting. I wish to know what sort of secrets my father has buried there.”

“You realize Deathwing’s Lair is possibly filled with the same corruption that plagued your flight?” Anduin asked, sitting to his right. He had arrived in the middle of the meeting. The demon hunter had glanced between them curiously, but said nothing further. Apparently he had far less scruples about helping the Alliance than some of his other Horde brethren. 

“I am aware. That is why we’re sending in our best to handle it,” Wrathion said, gesturing towards the demon hunter. Truth be told, Wrathion didn’t trust himself to delve into the secrets of the lair on his own. The memory, while strained and swirling like ichor in the back of his mind, was enough to make him fear getting too close to the Old Gods. 

“You should send a capable team. That way if anything goes wrong, there will be more people there to handle the situation.” Anduin tapped the map in the same place Wrathion had, though his blunted fingers lacked the same effect. 

Wrathion sighed. He hadn’t expected Anduin to start running his show. “You have a point. I will send you and several of my other champions to deal with this matter.”  
The demon hunter only shrugged. “If this gets us closer to defeating the Legion, I’m in.”

“Excellent!” Wrathion clapped his hands together. “I will send you the details as soon as everything is ready.”

Once their guest had left, Anduin turned to him. “I think this is a mistake. Nothing good can come out of that monster’s lair.”

“I agree that there is certainly nothing pleasant down there. However, if our newly resurrected friend Illidan Stormrage is anything to go by, sometimes we must use the enemy’s weapons against them. Or another of our enemy’s old weapons. Either way, it will be a relief to know what has been left behind.”

Anduin shook his head, but knew that the debate would go on between them. He didn’t approve, and he could feel the yawning gap between them grow further. Wrathion had listened, however. He had changed his plan of action, and he had done as he had promised he would. 

“Another drink is in order, I think” he said instead.

*

Wrathion dropped beside of Anduin, seated on the fountain’s edge. He fished for his coin purse, pulled free two of them, before dropping one into the fountain. Then, he held the other out for Anduin.

“I didn’t think you’d believe in wishes,” Anduin said, turning it over in the palm of his gloved hand.

“I don’t. And yet, I believe every avenue should be explored when our odds are so poor.”

Anduin sighed. “Don’t remind me.”

So, Wrathion didn’t. He sat in silence, not exactly the comfortable type, until Anduin tossed the coin into the fountain as well.

“We lost a lot of good people today,” he said instead. “People I commanded to hold their position. If I had just told them to move...”

His voice cracked. And for once, mercifully so, Wrathion did not have some quip about sacrifices being made for the greater good. Clearly, the knowledge of it weighed heavily on his friend. 

“Forgive me, this isn’t your burden,” Anduin said quickly. 

“There is nothing to forgive you for,” Wrathion answered smoothly, which awarded him a small, tired smile from his companion. 

The silence stretched on between them. Finally, Wrathion asked, “What is it that you wished for?”

Anduin’s smile widened, just so. It crinkled the corner of his eyes. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.” 

“That is ridiculous,” Wrathion murmured, trying and failing not to return the grin. Then, “There is a place nearby. I believe you’ve already scoped it out in your fruitless search for me. It sells treats like the ones Tong used to make for us at the Veiled Stair.”

He nods. “I did. They aren’t as good as Tong’s, but I did like them.”

With that, Wrathion stood. “Then we should have some. I’m buying, of course.”

“I’m not going to turn down free sweets,” Anduin replied, raising as well. It felt natural, as if they’d fallen back into an old habit. For a single evening, it was as if the years had turned back, and a war wasn’t being fought at their doorstep. 

Wrathion had to admit, he had missed it.

*

His champions returned, surprisingly enough. Anduin had just arrived himself, settling in when the tavern doors burst open with a shout of celebration. It seemed as though word of his rewards for heroic deeds had spread, and many began to clamor for coin or something more as the warlock and death knight from before delicately placing a cloth wrapped object on the table.

Wrathion reached for it with a clawed hand, pulling away its shroud to reveal what at first appeared as an unremarkable orb. Upon closer inspection, Wrathion could see swirling fragments within. Not what he expected, but certainly intriguing. 

He hands out gold, as promised. Some turn to spend it on drinks in the tavern, their hard earned victory quickly vanishing in drink and gambling. Wrahtion noted that others leave the way they came, eager for the next adventure. 

“What is it?” Anduin asked finally. He had remained silent and observant until that point. The look on his face is one of mistrust, and with good reason, Wrathion believed.  
Wrathion laughed. “I haven’t the slightest clue!”

“You should take it to the Kirin Tor, they’ll be able to tell you if it’s safe or not,” Anduin continued a moment later. There’s a furrow that had built between his eyebrows, making him look like an incredibly fair version of his father. Wrathion knew that point that out would only earn his ire, so he remained silent.

“I will do as you bid, Prince Anduin.” Wrathion bowed his head, which did earn him an annoyed look from his companion. He smiled serenely. “But for now, let us celebrate a hard earned victory, for they are few and far between.”

Reluctantly, Anduin agreed to some of the revelry. But his eyes never left the orb nestled in the palm of Wrathion’s hand. 

*

Wrathion was not about to hand over the artifact to the Kirin Tor. Instead, he made many excuses until he was allowed to do the research himself. By the exasperated look on the mage he’d harassed face, she would have given him anything at that point to shut him up. The orb was safely tucked away in his pocket. 

He was not free to go waving it about like a badge of honor, however. The mages might have let him use their library, but he was under close scrutiny. For hours, he pulled tome after tome from the shelves, scanning for descriptions or illustrations of the artifacts collected and protected by various sources. 

By the time the sun hung low in the sky, he felt the budding pressure of a headache behind his tired eyes. Still, he was no closer to a solution, and nowhere near finished with the Kirin Tor’s large library. 

He rose early the next day, a feat that was difficult for someone who spent his time entertaining guests into the late hours of the night. Blearily, he read through text after text. A clawed hand finally stopped flipping the pages, an illustration catching his eye. 

It appeared to be the orb. The same swirling patterns had been drawn, though it did the true thing little justice. His eyes scanned the page quickly.

Then, he closed the book and sat back.

Oh, Anduin was not going to like this. However, Wrathion believed it could change the tide of the war.


End file.
